


Paradise

by alienexe



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, in a futuristic hellscape, in which hugh is a street fighter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 23:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18292193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienexe/pseuds/alienexe
Summary: For its inhabitants, the city of Paradise was anything but.





	Paradise

_"So look me in the eyes, tell me what you see,_  
_a perfect paradise tearing at the seams,_  
_I wish I could escape, I don't wanna fake it,_  
_I wish I could erase it, make your heart believe,_  
_but I'm a **[bad liar.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEDhGX-UTeI)**"_

_-_ imagine dragons

* * *

 

**i.** The most defining aspect of the Backways were the countless cars and trucks in various states of disrepair that lined the road. Some of them were rusted beyond recognition. Others seemed to be fine but attempting to start them up would reveal a dead battery (something that may have been an insignificant problem decades ago, but now that the age of hovercraft had rendered the automobile obsolete, hardly anybody could afford such a repair). The majority of them were somewhere in between, leaking fluids that turned the rain puddles on the street into prismatic swirls. And there were plenty of puddles as without reason to maintain them the roads had fallen into a permanent state of disrepair with plenty of nooks, crannies, and ditches for rainfall to gather.

It was too late for Hugh to turn around and get an umbrella when it started raining. But he didn’t mind. It was welcome respite from the day’s blazing sun. But only marginally, for when the sun wasn’t baking everyone alive the maze of city streets doubled as a wind tunnel. And that probably would have rendered an umbrella useless anyway.

He just had to round one more corner and -

“There you are!” It was Michael Burnham, exasperated as ever but she could never hide how glad she was to see him. “Please tell me you remembered your permit this time.”

Hugh feigned panic and patted down his jacket and pants pockets before he finally pulled it from his front jacket pocket between two fingers. “Of course I did. Who do you take me for?”

Michael rolled her eyes. “Well, considering what happened last time you forgot it…” she trailed off when she realized the point was moot. There hadn’t been a raid in over six months.

“Just don’t get caught betting for me,” he told her. “You’re betting for me, right?”

“We’ll see,” Michael said as she shrugged her shoulders, “I haven’t seen your odds yet.”

He flashed her a smile. That was the only response he could give without giving away their scheme.

A Kelpien took his I.D. at the door. It saw Hugh’s smile, but did not return it. It did its own look over before it passed the I.D. over to a human with a cybernetically augmented eye (a common augmentation in a species that required eyeglasses), who returned it to Hugh’s hand. “Locker room is at the end of the hall on the right,” said the Kelpien.

Hugh knew this of course. But he nodded in thanks and proceeded through the door. He didn’t look back to see if Michael was close behind. He wouldn’t see her until the end of the night, when they split whatever they had won in the pools.

He had to push his way through a sea of bodies in order to get to the locker room. It was unfortunately placed, as putting it at the end of a hallway created a funnel effect, which made it incredibly easy to miss your match and be disqualified as a result of either not hearing or not being able to maneuver through the crowd quickly enough. This wasn’t a place where anybody was willing to share their space.

It took about five minutes for him to reach the locker room door, and he was elbowed in the back so many times he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was bruised before he even took a step in the ring. He found his locker and fished his key out of his pocket. Inside he found everything just as he left it: folded and zipped in his red and white duffel bag. He slipped off his white t-shirt and pulled on the black tank top in his bag, and ignored the wolf whistles in the background of the locker room. He wore it for the fact that it was the only shirt he didn’t roast to death in, but it had the added benefit of showing off his arm muscles and the black and white peony tattoo that adorned his left bicep.

Hugh inhaled and exhaled. Gathered his thoughts. Then he closed his locker, secured the lock, and braced himself to push back through the crowd.

 

**ii.** Some brawlers loved the shouts and jeers of the crowd. It grounded them, or it got their hearts pumping and adrenaline running through their veins. To Hugh, however, it was simply white noise. He wasn’t here for the cheers or the reputation (although if they came, they were nice bonuses), he was here to clear his head and blow off some steam. There was only so much an ER nurse in the middle of the city could handle before they had to take a walk.

So there he stood, already sweating from the anticipation as the ringleader began to hype up the crowd. He flexed his hands in an attempt to release some of his excess energy, and he overheard somebody in the crowd say something about his opponent being a new contender. This intrigued him - it’d been months since he’d last seen a newbie.

He was even more intrigued when his opponent entered the ring, looking very casual and clean-cut. His clothing appeared to be more alike to traditional robes than something to fight in, his arms and legs covered by the black fabric. He had no facial hair, unless you counted the shaping of his eyebrows (which Hugh did not),  and the hair on top of his head was cut into an even bowl cut through which poked the tips of his ears. So his opponent was Vulcan. Intriguing indeed.

The ringleader introduced him as “Spock,” which must have been his real name, but Hugh wouldn’t be sure until later. No one ever signed up with their real name, given the illicit nature of the fights. Hugh himself was called under the pseudonym of “Dr. Feel Good” (no one believed Hugh when he said Michael signed him up under that name, but it _was_ her doing). Regardless of the oddities of this new contender, Hugh knew by the hard expression on his face that he was not one to be underestimated.

The metallic drone of the gong rung out across the arena, and the audience roared. Match start.

The Vulcan, or “Spock,” didn’t move. He remained in place, expression also locked. Hugh chuckled, amused. He was being played with. His opponent was not only sizing him up, but also trying to elicit a rash first move from him. He took two steps forward. The crowd died down, and still the Vulcan didn’t move a muscle. He may have blinked, but on the other hand he may not have. Hugh came closer, still nothing. He closed the distance between them and swung his arm, but purposefully missed. “Spock’s” bangs moved with the displaced air, and he gave Hugh a look that said “well played,” but otherwise still remained frozen. This wasn’t the response he wanted.

That was when Hugh realized he wouldn’t be able to provoke him. He had to strike first. So he did. He swung his right arm for another punch, and this time he connected.

It was like he had struck a boulder. The blow could be heard nearly as loud as the gong, and it split Hugh’s knuckles as if the man’s cheekbones themselves had sliced him. The crowd oohed and aahed. The Vulcan faltered, staggered slightly, but he regained his balance. Then, before Hugh could even process what had happened, he kicked Hugh’s legs out from under him and “Dr. Feel Good’s” head hit the dirt. He could taste it in his mouth, mixed with blood. And the Vulcan simply held him to the ground by the back of his neck until the ringleader called the match and declared him winner.

 

**iii.** Nursing his pride as well as his wounds, Hugh scanned the crowd for Michael. He had changed back into his street clothes having been done in for the night, and had a bandage wrapped around his right hand. There wasn’t much to be done for his tongue, which he had bit during his fall. His muscles ached, but that was more of a side effect of being alive rather than a result of the fight.

He finally located her outside of the club, stood underneath a streetlight with a flickering bulb. It was something out of a suspense film. When she saw him, she didn’t greet him, just handed him over a thick wad of cash.

Hugh looked at it in his hands, then looked back at Michael before he came to the realization:

“You bet on the other guy!”

Michael laughed. “I told you I had to see your odds first.” Hugh opened and closed his mouth, but when he couldn’t come up with the words he huffed and crossed his arms. Michael caved. “Look, don’t take it too hard,” she told him, “Spock is my brother.”

This newfound bit of information left Hugh even more stunned than the first. “Wait. So his name _is_ Spock? _And_ you’ve had a secret brother you never told me about all this time?”

“You never asked.”

Touché.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I didn’t realize they would put him against you first. I’m sorry.”

Hugh smiled. “I’m more curious about what would draw a Vulcan to the ring in the first place.”

Michael shrugged her shoulders. “He’s half-human, too.”

Hugh didn’t comment, although he was drawn in by this. There’d be more time to discuss it another day.

He noticed Michael shift her balance from foot to foot. She had never enjoyed or felt comfortable with small talk. Hugh shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “Are you ready to go?” he asked her.

“No, I think I’m going to stay for a bit. Watch the other fights.” A lie. She never stayed for the fights. She was here for her brother. And she knew that Hugh knew her well enough to figure that out. “If you need to go, you can.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure I get home safe.”

He chuckled. Had it been anyone else, Hugh would have insisted. But Michael simply would have insisted right back at him that she would be fine. He gave her a small wave to say “see you later,” (later likely being the next time he was in the ring), and began to make his way back to the city lights.

 

**iv.** “You _cannot_ go back in there!”

“What am I going to do? Call the cops?”

Disputes such as this were commonplace. In fact, Hugh had overheard two other similar conversations on his way back to his apartment. And he wouldn’t have paid this one any more mind than the others had he not recognized the people who were shouting.

The first was a woman with frizzy red hair, but tonight it was pulled back as opposed to how Hugh usually saw her with her hair down. She was also wearing a black t-shirt much too big for her and some black sweatpants. Whatever had happened, she had woken up in the middle of the night in order to deal with it.

The man’s hair was also disheveled, but not in the just-got-out-of-bed kind of way. He was still wearing his jeans from the day despite it being close to three in the morning and he was holding a tissue under his nose that had at one point been white but was by then stained red. So he was messed up in the just-got-out-of-a-fight kind of way. That was something he and Hugh had in common.

“At least spend the night with me,” the woman implored him.

The man didn’t respond. Hugh could tell from his expression he had no desire to pursue this conversation. He just sat there, back against the railing and one of his feet on the same stair level with his body, the other a couple down below. The apartment had a pink neon light fixture, and his pale hair and skin reflected it nicely.

“Hey!” The man was yelling at Hugh specifically. “I asked you, what are you staring at?”

Typically, Hugh would’ve responded to such an aggressive question in kind, but he could see the man was having a bad day, and he was easy on the eyes. So he cut him some slack. “Pinch your nose,” he said and showed the man on his own face. “And don’t use ice. It’ll swell.”

The man nodded. He must have noticed the bandage on Hugh’s hand because then he asked, “Happens to you often?”

Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “You should see the other guy.”

Not a scratch on him.

The man attempted a smile, but the movement of his face sent pain down his nose, and it turned into a wince. He tilted his head back and did as Hugh had instructed him earlier. Hugh introduced himself, but when he extended his hand it was ignored. Instead, the man waved to indicate he was speaking about himself, “Paul. And,” he gestured to the woman next to him, “this is Sylvia.”

Paul didn’t strike Hugh as much of a fighter.

“Yeah, well, he’s got a mouth,” the woman interjected.

Oh. He accidentally said that out loud. He felt his face flush and silently hoped that the pink hue of the lights would be enough to mask it. He excused himself from the conversation with a polite nod, and he mentioned something about it being late but he couldn’t tell if they actually heard him. “I live in the next building over, if you need anything,” he added.

“Okay,” conceded Paul to Sylvia, seemingly unaware of Hugh’s retreating form while also purposefully ignoring Hugh’s offer of assistance, “but you should see the other guy.”

Then, as Hugh had turned his back and was just about to walk out of earshot, Paul muttered under his breath,

“Not a scratch on him.”

**Author's Note:**

> here we go!! the first chapter is here, after me spending ages hyping myself up about it. not particularly satisfied with this but i am pretty sure i can improve it from here.  
> comments & kudos are appreciated! ♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/aIienexe)


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